Cyber Christ Bites The Big Apple

HOPE - Hackers On Planet Earth,
New York City - August 13-14, 1994

(C) 1994 Winn Schwartau
by Winn Schwartau

(This is Part II of the ongoing Cyber Christ series. Part I,
"Cyber Christ Meets Lady Luck" DefCon II, Las Vegas, July 22-24,
1994 is available all over the 'Net.)

Las Vegas is a miserable place, and with a nasty cold no less; it
took me three weeks of inhaling salt water and sand at the beach
to finally dry up the post nasal drip after my jaunt to DefCon
II. My ears returned to normal so that I no longer had to answer
every question with an old Jewish man's "Eh?" while fondling my
lobes for better reception.

New York had to be better.

Emmanuel Goldstein -aka Eric Corely - or is it the other way
around? is the host of HOPE, Hackers on Planet Earth, a celebration
of his successfully publishing 2600 - The Hackers Quarterly
for ten years without getting jailed, shot or worse. For as
Congressman Ed Markey said to Eric/Emmanuel in a Congressional
hearing last year, and I paraphrase, 2600 is no more than a
handbook for hacking (comparable obviously to a terrorist handbook
for blowing up the World Trade Center) for which Eric/Emmanuel
should be properly vilified, countenanced and then drawn and
quartered on Letterman's Stupid Pet Tricks.

Ed and Eric/Emmanuel obviously have little room for negotiation
and I frankly enjoyed watching their Congressional movie where
communication was at a virtual standstill: and neither side
understood the viewpoints or positions of the other.

But Ed is from Baaahhhsten, and Eric/Emmanuel is from New York,
and HOPE will take place in the Hotel Filthadelphia, straight
across the street from Pennsylvania Station in beautiful downtown
fast-food-before-they-mug-you 34th street, right around the
corner from clean-the-streets-its-Thanksgiving Herald Square.
Geography notwithstanding, HOPE promised to be a more iconoclastic
gathering than that of DefCon II.

First off, to set the record straight, I am a New Yorker. No
matter that I escaped in 1981 for the sunny beaches of California
for 7 years, and then moved to the Great State of the Legally
Stupid for four more (Tennessee); no matter that I now live on
the Gulf Coast of Florida where the water temperature never dips
below a chilly 98 degrees; I am and always will be a New Yorker.

It took me the better part of a decade of living away from New
York to come to that undeniable and inescapable conclusion: Once
a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. Not that that makes my wife
any the happier.

"You are so rude. You love to argue. Confrontation is your
middle name." Yeah, so what's your point?

You see, for a true New Yorker these aren't insults to be
re-regurgitated at the mental moron who attempts to combat us in a
battle of wits yet enters the ring unarmed; these are mere truisms
as seen by someone who views the world in black and white,
not black, white and New York.

Case in point.

I used to commute into Manhattan from the Westchester County
suburb of Ossining where I lived 47 feet from the walls of Sing
Sing prison (no shit!). Overlooking the wide expanse of the
Hudson River from my aerie several hundred feet above, the only
disquieting aspect of that location were the enormously deafening
thunderclaps which resounded a hundred and one times between the
cliffs on either side of the river. Then there was the occasional
escapee-alarm from the prison. .

So, it was my daily New York regimen to take the 8:15 into the
city. If the train's on time I'll get to work by nine . . .

Grand Central Station - the grand old landmark thankfully saved
by the late Jackie O. - is the nexus for a few hundred million
commuters who congregate in New York Shitty for no other reason
that to collect a paycheck to afford blood pressure medicine.

You have to understand that New York is different. Imagine,
picture in your mind: nothing is so endearing as to watch thousands
of briefcase carrying suits scrambling like ants in a Gary
Larson cartoon for the nearest taxi, all the while greeting their
neighbors with the prototypical New York G'day!

With both fists high in the air, middle fingers locked into erect
prominence, a cacophonous chorus of "Good Fucking Morning"
brightens the day of a true New Yorker. His bloodshot eyes
instantly clear, the blood pressure sinks by 50% and already the
first conflict of the day has been waged and won.

So HOPE was bound to be radically different from Vegas's DefCon
II, if only for the setting. But, I expected hard core. The
European contingent will be there, as will Israel and South
America and even the Far East. All told, I am told, 1000 or more
are expected. And again, as at DefCon II, I am to speak, but
Eric/Emmanuel never told me about what, when, or any of the other
niceties that go along with this thing we call a schedule.

God, I hate rushing.

Leaving Vienna at 3:15 for a 4PM Amtrak "put your life in their
hands" three hour trip to New York is not for the faint of heart.
My rented Hyundai four cylinder limousine wound up like a sewing
machine to 9,600 RPM and hydroplaned the bone dry route 66 into
the pot holed, traffic hell of Friday afternoon Washington, DC.
Twelve minutes to spare.

I made the 23 mile trip is something less than three minutes and
bounded into the Budget rental return, decelerated to impulse
power and let my brick and lead filled suitcase drop to the
pavement with a dent and a thud. "Send me the bill," I hollered
at the attendant. Never mind that Budget doesn't offer express
service like real car rental companies. "Just send me the bill!"
and I was off.

Eight minute to spare. Schlepp, schlepp. Heavy, heavy.

Holy shit! Look at the line for tickets and I had reservations.

"Is this the line for the four o'clock to New York?" Pant,
breathless.

"Yeah." She never looked up.

"Will they hold the train?"

"No." A resoundingly rude no at that. Panic gene takes over.

"What about the self-ticketing computer?" I said pointing at the
self ticketing computer.

"Do you have a reservation?"

"Yup." Maybe there is a God.

"Won't help you."

"What?"

Nothing.

"What do you mean won't help?"

"Computer's broken." Criminy! I have 4 minutes and here's this
over-paid over-attituded Amtrak employee who thinks she's the
echo of Whoopi Goldberg. "The line's over there."

Have you ever begged? I mean really begged? Well I have.

"Are you waiting for the four?" "Can I slip ahead?" "Are you in
a death defying hurry?" "I'll give you a dime for your spot in
line." "You are so pretty for 76, ma'am. Can I sneak ahead?"

Tears work. Two excruciating minutes to go. I bounced ahead of
everyone in a line the length of the Great Wall of China, got my
tickets and tore ass through Union Station The closing gate
missed me but caught the suitcase costing me yet more time as I
attempted to disgorge my now-shattered valise from the fork-lift-like
spikes which protect the trains from late-coming commuters.
The rubber edged doors on the train itself were kinder and gentler,
but at this point, screw it. It was Evian and Fritos for
the next three hours.

Promises tend to be lies. The check is in the mail; Dan Quayle
will learn to spell; I won't raise taxes. I wonder about HOPE.

"It's going to be Bust Central," said one prominent hacker who
threatened me with electronic assassination if I used his name.
"Emmanuel will kill me." Apparently the authorities-who-be are
going to be there in force. "They want to see if Corrupt or any
of the MoD crew stay after dark, then Zap! Back to jail. (giggle,
giggle.) I want to see that."

Will Mitnick show up? I'd like to talk to that boy. A thousand
hackers in one place and Eric/Emmanuel egging on the Feds to do
something stupid. Agent Steal will be there, or registered at
least, and half of the folks I know going are using aliases.

"I'd like a room please."

"Yessir. Name?"

"Monkey Meat."

"Is that your first or last name?"

"First."

"Last name?"

"Dilithium Crystal."

"Could you spell that?"

Now: I know the Hotel Pennsylvania. It used to be the high
class Statler Hilton until Mr. Hilton himself decided that the
place was beyond hope. "Sell it or scuttle it." They sold and
thus begat the hotel Filthadelphia. I stayed here once in 1989
and it was a cesspool then. I wondered why the Farsi-fluent
bellhop wouldn't tell me how bad the damage was from the fire
bombed 12th floor. The carpets were the same dingy, once upon a
time colorful, drab as I remembered. And, I always have a bit of
trouble with a hotel who puts a security check by the elevator
bank. Gives you the warm and fuzzies that make you want to come
back right away.

I saved $2 because none of the bell hops noticed I needed help,
but then again, it wouldn't have mattered for there was no way he
and I and my luggage were going to fit inside of what the hotel
euphemistically refers to as a 'room'. Closet would be kind but
still inaccurate. I think the word, ah, '$95 a night slum' might
still be overly generous. Let's try . . . ah ha! the room that
almost survived the fire bombing. Yeah, that's the ticket.

The walls were pealing. Long strips of yellowed antique wallpaper
embellished the flatness of the walls as they curled towards
the floor and windows. The chunks of dried glue decorated
the pastel gray with texture and the water stains from I know not
where slithered their way to the soggy carpet in fractal patterned
rivulets. I stood in awe at early funk motif that the
Hotel Filthadelphia chose in honor of my attendance at HOPE.
But, no matter how bad my room was, at least it was bachelor
clean. (Ask your significant other what that means. . .)

In one hacker's room no bigger than mine I counted 13 sleeping
bags lying amongst the growing mold at the intersection of the
drenched wallboard and putrefying carpet shreds. (God, I love
going to hacker conferences! It's not that I like Hyatt's and
Hilton' all that much: I do prefer the smaller facilities, but, I
am sad to admit, clean counts at my age.). My nose did not have
to venture towards the floor to be aware that the Hotel Filthadelphia
was engaging in top secret exobiological government
experiments bent on determining their communicability and
infection factor.

The top floor of the Hotel Filthadelphia - the 18th - was the
place for HOPE, except the elevator door wouldn't open. The
inner door did, but even with the combined strength of my personal
crowbar (a New York defensive measure only; I never use it at
home) and three roughians with a bad case of Mexican Claustrophobia,
we never got the door open.

The guard in the lobby was a big help.

"Try again."

Damned if he didn't know his elevators and I emerged into the
pre-HOPE chaos of preparing for a conference.

About 100 hackers lounged around in varying forms of disarray -
Hey Rop!

Rop Gongrijjp editor of the Dutch Hacktic is a both a friend and
an occasional source of stimulating argument. Smart as a whip, I
don't always agree with him, though, the above-ground security
types ought to talk to him for a clear, concise and coherent
description of the whys and wherefores of hacking.

Hey Emmanuel! Hey Strat! Hey Garbage Heap! Hey Erikb! Hey to
lots of folks. Is that you Supernigger? And Julio? I was surprised.
I knew a lot more of these guys that I thought I did.
Some indicted, some unindicted, some mere sympathizers and other
techno-freaks who enjoy a weekend with other techno-freaks.
Security dudes - get hip! Contact your local hacker and make
friends. You'll be glad you did.

>From behind - got me. My adrenaline went into super-saturated
mode as I was grabbed. I turned and it was . . . Ben. Ben is a
hugger. "I just wanted to hug you," he said sweetly but without
the humorous sexually deviant connotation that occurred during
Novocain's offer to let Phil Zimmerman sleep with him in Las
Vegas.

I smiled a crooked smile. "Yeah, right." Woodstock '94 was a
mere 120 miles away . . .maybe there was a psychic connection.
But Ben was being sincere. He was hugging everyone. Everyone.
At 17, he really believes that hugging and hacking are next to
Godliness. Boy does he have surprise coming the first time his
mortgage is late. Keep hugging while you have the chance, Ben.

Assorted cases of Zima (the disgusting Polish is-this-really-lime
flavored beer of choice by those without taste buds) appeared,
but anyone over the age of 21 drank Bud. What about the 12 year
olds drinking? And the 18 year olds? And the 16 year olds?

"Rop, I don't think you need to give the hotel an excuse to bust
you guys outta here." Me, fatherly and responsible? Stranger
things have happened. The beer was gone. I'm not a teetotaler,
but I didn't want my weekend going up in flames because of some
trashed 16 year old puking on an Irani ambassador in the lobby.
No reason to test fate.

Nothing worked, but that's normal.

Rop had set up HEU (Hacking at the End of the Universe) in
Holland last year with a single length of 800m ethernet. (That's
meter for the Americans: about 2625 ft.) HOPE, though was different.
The Hotel Filthadelphia's switchboard and phone systems
crashed every half hour or so which doesn't do a lot for the
health of 28.8 slip lines.

The object of the exercise was seemingly simple: plug together
about 20 terminals into a terminal server connected to Hope.Com
and let 'em go at it. Provide 'net access and, to the lucky
winner of the crack-the-hopenet server (root) the keys to a 1994
Corvette!

You heard it right! For breaking into root of their allegedly
secure server, the folks at 2600 are giving away keys to a 1994
Corvette. They don't know where the car is, just the keys. But
they will give you the car's last known location . . . or was it
$50 in cash?

Erikb - Chris Goggans - showed up late Friday night in disguise:
a baseball cap over his nearly waist length dirty blond hair.
"He's here!" one could hear being muttered. "He had the balls to
show up!" "He's gonna get his ass kicked to a pulp." "So you
did come . . . I was afraid they'd intimidated you to stay in
Texas."

No way! "Why tell the enemy what your plans are." Even the 50's-something
ex-amphetamine-dealer turned reseller of public-records
Bootleg didn't know Goggans was going to be there. But the
multiple fans of Erikb, (a strong resemblance to Cyber Christ if
he do say so himself) were a-mighty proud to see him.

This stunning Asian girl with skin too soft to touch (maybe she
was 14, maybe she was 25) looked at Erikb by the message board.
"You're," she pointed in disbelief "Erikb?" Chris nods, getting
arrogantly used to the respectful adulation. Yeah, that's me, to
which the lady/girl/woman instantly replied, "You're such an
asshole." Smile, wide smile, hug, kiss, big kiss. Erikb revels
in the attention and hundreds of horny hackers jealously look on.

Friday night was more of an experience - a Baba Ram Dass-like Be
Here Now experience - with mellow being the operative word. The
hotel had apparently sacrificed 20,000 square feet of its penthouse
to hackers, but it was obvious to see they really didn't
give a damn if the whole floor got trashed. Ceiling panels
dripped from their 12 foot lofts making a scorched Shuttle underbelly
look pristine. What a cesspool! I swear nothing had been
done to the decorative environs since the day Kennedy was shot.
But kudos to Emmanuel for finding a centrally located cesspool
that undoubtedly gave him one hell of a deal. I think it would be
a big mistake to hold a hacker conference at the Plaza or some
such snooty overly-self-indulgent denizen of the rich.

Filth sort of lends credibility to an event that otherwise seeks
notoriety.

I didn't want to take up too much of Emmanuel's and Rop's time -
they were in setup panic - so it was off to the netherworld until
noon. That's when a civilized Con begins.

I dared to go outside; it was about 11AM and I was in search of
the perfect New York breakfast: a greasy spoon that serves coffee
as tough as tree bark and a catatonia inducing egg and bacon
sandwich. Munch, munch, munch on that coffee.

I'd forgotten how many beggars hang out on the corner of 33rd and
7th, all armed with the same words, "how about a handout, Winn?"
How the hell do they know my name? "Whatever you give will come
back to you double and triple . . . please man, I gotta eat." It
is sad, but John Paul Getty I ain't.

As I munched on my coffee and sipped my runny egg-sandwich I
noticed that right in front of the runny-egg-sandwich place sat a
Ford Econoline van. Nice van. Nice phone company van. What are
they doing here? Oh, yeah, the hackers need lines and the switchboard
is down. Of course, the phone company is here. But,
what's that? Hello? A Hacker playing in the phone van? I recognize
you! You work with Emmanuel. How? He's robbing it. Not
robbing, maybe borrowing.

The ersatz telephone van could have fooled anyone - even me, a
color blind quasi-techno-weanie to yell "Yo! Ma Bell!" But, upon
not-too-closer inspection, the TPC (The Phone Company) van was in
fact a 2600 van - straight from the minds of Emmanuel and
friends. Impeccable! The telephone bell in a circle logo is, in
this case, connected via cable to a hacker at a keyboard. The
commercial plates add an additional air of respectability to the
whole image. It works.

Up to HOPE - egg sandwich and all.

The keynote speech was to be provided courtesy of the Man in
Blue. Scheduled for noon, things were getting off to a late
start. The media (who were there in droves, eat your heart out
CSI) converged on the MIB to see who and why someone of his
stature would (gasp!) appear/speak at a funky-downtown hotel
filled with the scourges of Cyberspace. I didn't see if Ben
hugged the MIB, but I would understand if he didn't. Few people
knew him or suspected what size of Jim-Carey-MASK arsenal might
suddenly appear if a passive hug were accidentally interpreted as
being too aggressive. The MIB is imposing and Ben too shy.

The media can ask some dumb questions and write some dumb articles
because they spend 12 1/2 minutes trying to understand an
entire culture. Can't do that fellows!

The MIB, though, knows hackers and is learning about them more
and more; and since he is respectable, the media asks him about
hackers. What are hackers? Why are YOU here, Mr. MIB?

"Because they have a lot to offer. They are the future," the Man
In Blue said over and over. Interview after interview - how time
flies when you're having fun - and the lights and cameras are
rolling from NBC and PIX and CNN and assorted other channels and
magazines. At 12:55 chaos had not settled down to regimented
disorganization and the MIB was getting antsy. After all, he was
a military man and 55 minutes off schedule: Egad! Take charge.

The MIB stood on a chair and hollered to the 700+ hacker phreaks
in the demonstration ballroom, "Hey! It's starting. Let's go the
theater and get rocking! Follow me." He leaned over to me: "Do
you know where the room is?"

"Sure, follow me."

"Everyone follow, c'mon," yelled the MIB. "I'm going to get
started in exactly three minutes," and three minutes he meant.
Despite the fact that I got lost in a hallway and had hundreds of
followers following my missteps and the MIB yelling at me for
getting lost in a room with only two doors, we did make the main
hall, and within 90 seconds he took over the podium and began
speaking.

"I bet you've always wanted to ask a spy a few questions. Here's
your chance. But let me say that the United States intelligence
community needs help and you guys are part of the solution." The
MIB was impeccably dressed in his pin stripe with only traces of
a Hackers 80 T-shirt leaking through his starched white dress
shirt. The MIB is no less than Robert Steele, ex-CIA type spy,
senior civilian in Marine Corps Intelligence and now the President
of Open Source Solutions, Inc.

He got these guys (and gals) going. Robert doesn't mince words
and that's why as he puts it, he's "been adopted by the hackers."
At his OSS conferences he has successfully juxtaposed hackers and
senior KGB officials who needed full time security during their
specially arranged 48 hour visa to Washington, DC. He brought
Emmanuel and Rop and clan to his show and since their agendas
aren't all that different, a camaraderie was formed.

Robert MIB Steele believes that the current intelligence machinery
is inadequate to meet the challenges of today's world. Over
80% of the classified information contained with the Byzantine
bowels of the government is actually available from open sources.
We need to realize that the future is more of an open book than
ever before.

We classify newspaper articles from Peru in the incredibly naive
belief that only Pentagon spooks subscribe. We classify BBC
video tapes from the UK with the inane belief that no one will
watch it if it so stamped. We classify $4 Billion National
Reconnaissance Office satellite generated street maps of Calle,
Colombia when anyone with an IQ only slightly above a rock can
get the same one from the tourist office. And that's where
hackers come in.

"You guys are a national resource. Too bad everyone's so scared
of you." Applause from everywhere. The MIB knows how to massage
a crowd. Hackers, according to Steele, and to a certain extent I
agree, are the truth tellers "in a constellation of complex
systems run amok and on the verge of catastrophic collapse."

Hackers are the greatest sources of open source information in
the world. They have the navigation skills, they have the time,
and they have the motivation, Robert says. Hackers peruse the
edges of technology and there is little that will stop them in
their efforts. The intelligence community should take advantage
of the skills and lessons that the hackers have to teach us, yet
as we all know, political and social oppositions keep both sides
(who are really more similar then dissimilar) from talking.

"Hackers put a mirror up to the technical designers who have
built the networks, and what they see, they don't like. Hackers
have shown us all the chinks in the armor of a house without
doors or windows. The information infrastructure is fragile and
we had better do something about it now; before it's too late."

Beat them at their own game, suggests Steele. Keep the doors of
Cyberspace open, and sooner or later, the denizens of the black
holes of information will have to sooner or late realize that the
cat is out of the bag.

Steele educated the Hacker crowd in a way new to them: he treated
them with respect, and in turn he opened a channel of dialog
that few above ground suit-types have ever envisioned. Steele
works at the source.

HOPE had begun and Robert had set the tone.

The day was long. Dogged by press, hackers rolled over so the
reporters could tickle their stomachs on camera. Despite their
public allegations that the media screws it up and never can get
the story right, a camera is like a magnet. The New York Times
printed an article about HOPE so off the wall I wondered if the
reporter had actually been there. Nonetheless, the crowds followed
the cameras, the cameras followed the crowds, and the
crowds parted like the Red Sea. But these were mighty colorful
crowds.

We all hear of that prototypical image of the acne faced, Jolt-drinking,
pepperoni downing nerdish teenager who has himself
locked in the un-air-conditioned attic of his parents' half
million dollar house from the time school gets out till the sun
rises. Wrongo security-breath. Yeah, there's that component, but
I was reminded of the '80's, the early '80's by a large percentage
of the crowd.

Purple hair was present but scarce, and I swear on a stack of
2600's that Pat from Saturday Night Live was there putting everyone's
hormonal guess-machines to the test. But what cannot help
but capture one's attention is a 40 pin integrated circuit
inserted into the shaved side skull of an otherwise clean-cut
Mohawk haircut.

The story goes that Chip Head went to a doctor and had a pair of
small incisions placed in his skull which would hold the leads
from the chip. A little dab of glue and in a few days the skin
would grow back to hold the 40 pins in the natural way; God's
way.

There was a time that I thought ponytails were 'out' and passe,
but I thought wrong. Mine got chopped off in roughly 1976 down
to shoulder length which remained for another six years, but half
of the HOPE audience is the reason for wide spread poverty in the
hair salon industry.

Nothing wrong with long, styled, inventive, outrageous hair as
long as it's clean; and with barely an exception, such was the
case. In New York it's not too hard to be perceived as clean,
especially when you consider the frame of reference. Nothing is
too weird.

The energy level of HOPE was much higher than the almost lethargic
(but good!) DefCon II. People move in a great hurry, perhaps
to convey the sense of importance to others, or just out of
frenetic hyperactivity. Hackers hunched over their keyboards -
yet with a sense of urgency and purpose. Quiet yet highly animated
conversations in all corners. HOPE staff endlessly pacing
throughout the event with their walkie-talkies glued to their
ears.

Not many suit types. A handful at best, and what about the Feds?
I was accosted a few times for being a Fed, but word spread: no
Fed, no bust. Where were the Feds? In the lobby. The typical
NYPD cop has the distinctive reputation of being overweight
especially when he wearing two holsters - one for the gun and one
for the Italian sausage. Perpetually portrayed as donut dunking
dodo's, some New York cops' asses are referred to as the Fourth
Precinct and a few actually moonlight as sofas.

So rather than make a stink, (NY cops hate to make a scene) the
lobby of the Hotel Filthadelphia was home to the Coffee Clutch
for Cops. About a half dozen of them made their profound
presence known by merely spending their day consuming mass quantities
of questionable ingestibles, but that was infinitely
preferable to hanging out on the 18th floor. The hackers weren't
causing any trouble, the cops knew that, so why push it. Hackers
don't fight, they hack. Right?

After hours of running hours behind schedule, the HOPE conference
was in first place for disorganized, with DefCon II not far
behind. Only with 1000 people to keep happy and in the right
rooms, chaos reigns sooner. The free Unix sessions and Pager
session and open microphone bitch session and the unadulterated
true history of 2600 kept audiences of several hundred hankering
for more - hour after hour.

Over by the cellular hacking demonstrations, I ran into a hacker
I had written about: Julio, from the almost defunct Masters of
Destruction. Julio had gone state's evidence and was prepared to
testify against MoD ring leader Mark Abene (aka Phiber Optik) but
once Mark pled guilty to enough crimes to satisfy the Feds, Julio
was off the hook with mere probation. Good guy, sworn off of
hacking. Cell phones are so much more interesting.

However, while standing around with Erikb and a gaggle of Cyber
Christ wanna-bes, Julio and his friend (who was the size of Texas
on two legs) began a pushing match with Goggans. "You fucking
narc red-neck son of a bitch." Goggans helped build the case
against the MoD and didn't make a lot of friends in the process.

The shoving and shouldering reminded me of slam dancing from
decades past, but these kids are too young to have taken part in
the social niceties of deranged high speed propulsion and revulsion
on the dance floor. So it was a straight out pushing match,
which found Erikb doing his bloody best to avoid. Julio and pal
kept a'coming and Erikb kept avoiding. It took a dozen of us to
get in the middle and see that Julio was escorted to the elevators.
Julio said Corrupt, also of the MoD, was coming down to HOPE,
too. Corrupt has been accused of mugging drug dealers to finance
his computer escapades, and was busted along with the rest of the
MoD gang. The implied threat was taken seriously, but, for
whatever reason, Corrupt never showed. It is said that the
majority of the hacking community distances itself from him; he's
not good for the collective reputation. So much for hacker
fights. All is calm.

The evening sessions continued and continued with estimates of as
late as 4AM being bandied about. Somewhere around 1:00AM I ran
into Bootleg in the downstairs bar. Where was everybody? Not
upstairs. Not in the bar. I saw a Garbage Heap in the street
outside (now that's a double entendre) and then Goggans popped up
from the door of the Blarney Stone, a syndicated chain of low-class
Irish bars that serve fabulously thick hot sandwiches.

Fifty or so hacker/phreaks had migrated to the least likely, most
anachronistic location one could imagine. A handful of drunken
sots leaning over their beers on a stain encrusted wooden breeding
ground for salmonella. A men's room that hasn't seen the
fuzzy end of a brush for the best part of a century made Turkish
toilets appear refreshingly clean. And they serve food here.

I didn't look like a hacker so I asked the bartender, "Big crowd,
eh?"

The barrel chested beer bellied barman nonchalantly replied,
"nah. Pretty usual." He cleaned a glass so thoroughly the water
marks stood out plainly.

"Really? This much action on a Saturday night on a dark side
street so questionably safe that Manhattan's Mugger Society posts
warnings?"

"Yup."

"So," I continued. "These hackers come here a lot?"

"Sure do," he said emphatically.

"Wow. I didn't know that. So this is sort of a hacker bar, you
might say?"

"Exactly. Every Saturday night they come in and raise a little
hell."

With a straight face I somehow managed to thank the confused
barman for his help and for the next four hours learned that
socially, hackers of today are no different than many if not most
of us were in our late teens ad early twenties. We laughed and
joked and so do they - but there is more computer talk. We
decried the political status of our day as they do theirs, albeit
they with less fervor and more resignation. The X-Generation
factor: most of them give little more than a tiny shit about
things they view as being totally outside their control, so why
bother. Live for today.

Know they enemy. Robert hung in with me intermingling and arguing
and debating and learning from them, and they from us.
Hackers aren't the enemy - their knowledge is - and they are not
the exclusive holders of that information. Information Warfare
is about capabilities, and no matter who possesses that capability,
there ought to be a corresponding amount respect.
Indeed, rather than adversaries, hackers could well become
government allies and national security assets in an intense
international cyber-conflict. In the LoD/MoD War of 1990-91, one
group of hackers did help authorities. Today many hackers assist
professional organizations, governments in the US and overseas -
although very quietly. 'Can't be seen consorting with the
enemy.' Is hacking from an Army or Navy or NATO base illegal?
Damned if I know, but more than one Cyber Christ-like character
makes a tidy sum providing hands-on hacking education to the
brass in Europe.

Where these guys went after 5AM I don't know, but I was one of
the first to be back at the HOPE conference later that day; 12:30
PM Sunday.

The Nazi Hunters were out in force.

"The Neo-Nazi skinheads are trying to start another Holocaust." A
piercing, almost annoying voice stabbed right through the crowds.
"Their racist propaganda advocates killing Jews and blacks. They
have to be stopped, now."

Mortechai Levy (I'll call him Morty) commanded the attention of a
couple dozen hackers. Morty was a good, emotional, riveting
shouter. "These cowardly bastards have set up vicious hate call
lines in over 50 cities. The messages advocate burning synagogues,
killing minorities and other violence. These phones have
to be stopped!"

The ever-present leaflet from Morty's Jewish Defense Organization
asked for help from the 2600 population.

"Phone freaks you must use your various assorted bag of
tricks to shut these lines down. No cowardly sputterings
about 'free speech' for these fascist scum."

The headline invited the hacker/phreak community to:

"Let's Shut Down 'Dial-A-Nazi'!!!"

Morty was looking for political and technical support from a band
of nowhere men and women who largely don't know where they're
going much less care about an organized political response to
someone elses cause. He wasn't making a lot of headway, and he
must have know that he would walk right into the anarchist's
bible: the 1st amendment.

The battle lines had been set. Morty wanted to see the Nazis
censored and hackers are absolute freedom of speechers by any
measure. Even Ben sauntering over for a group hug did little to
defuse the mounting tension.

I couldn't help but play mediator. Morty was belligerently loud
and being deafeningly intrusive which affected the on-going
sessions. To tone it down some, we nudged Morty and company off to
the side and occupied a corner of thread bare carpet, leaning
against a boorish beige wall that had lost its better epidermis.

The heated freedom of speech versus the promotion of racial
genocide rancor subdued little even though we were all buns side
down. I tried to get a little control of the situation.

"Morty. Answer me this so we know where you're coming from. You
advocate the silencing of the Nazis, right?

"They're planning a new race war; they have to be stopped."

"So you want them silenced. You say their phones should be
stopped and that the hackers should help."

"Call that number and they'll tell you that Jews and blacks
should be killed and then they . . ."

"Morty. OK, you want to censor the Nazis. Yes or No."

"Yes."

"OK, I can understand that. The question really is, and I need
your help here, what is the line of censorship that you advocate.
Where is your line of legal versus censored?"

A few more minutes of political diatribe and then he got to the
point. "Any group with a history of violence should be censored
and stopped." A little imagination and suddenly the whole planet
is silenced. We need a better line, please. "Hate group, Nazis,
people who advocate genocide . . . they should be
silenced . . . ."

One has to admire Morty and his sheer audacity and tenacity and
how much he strenuously and single-mindedly drives his points
home. He didn't have the ideal sympathetic audience, but he
wouldn't give an inch. Not an inch. A little self righteousness
goes a long way; boisterous extremism grows stale. It invites
punitive retorts and teasing, or in counter-culture jargon,
"fucking with their heads."

Morty (perhaps for justifiable reasons) was totally inflexible
and thus more prone to verbal barbing. "You're just a Jewish
racist. Racism in reverse," accused one jocular but definitely
lower middle class hacker with an accent thicker than all of
Brooklyn.

Incoming Scuds! Look out! Morty went nuts and as they say,
freedom of speech ends when my fists impacts upon your nose.
Morty came dangerously close to crossing that line. Whoah,
Morty, whoah. He's just fucking with your head. The calm-down
brigade did its level best to keep these two mortals at opposite
ends of the room.

"You support that Neo Nazi down there; you're as bad as the
rest!" Morty said. "See what I have to tolerate. I know him,
we've been keeping track of him and he hangs out with the son of
the Grand Wizard of Nazi Oz." The paranoid train got on the
tracks.

"Do you really know the Big Poo-bah of Hate?" I asked the hacker
under assault and now under protective custody.

"Yeah," he said candidly. "He's some dick head who hates everyone.
Real jerk."

"So what about you said to Morty over there?"

"Just fucking with his head. He gets a little extreme." So we
had in our midst the Al Sharpton of the Jewish faith. Ballsy.
Since Morty takes Saturday's off by religious law, he missed the
press cavalcade, but as a radical New York fixture, the media
probably didn't mind too much.

I was off to sessions, Morty found new audiences as they came off
the elevators, and the band played on.

In my humble 40-something opinion, the best session of HOPE was
the one on social engineering.

The panel consisted of only Emmanuel, Supernigger (social engineer
par excellence) and Cheshire Catalyst. The first bits were
pretty staid dry conventional conference (ConCon) oriented, but
nonetheless, not the kind of info that you expect to find William
H. Murray, Executive Consultant handing out.

The best social engineers make friends of their victims. Remember:
you're playing a role. Think Remington Steele.

Schmooze! "Hey, Jack did you get a load of the blond on Stern
last night?"

Justifiable anger: "Your department has caused nothing but headaches.
These damn new computers/phones/technology just don't
work like the old ones. Now either you help me now or I'm going
all the way to Shellhorn and we'll what he says about these kinds
of screwups." A contrite response is the desired effect.

Butt headed bosses: "Hey, my boss is all over my butt, can you
help me out?"

Management hatred: "I'm sitting here at 3PM working while management
is on their yachts. Can you tell me . . .?"

Giveaways: "Did you know that so and so is having an affair with
so and so? It's true, I swear. By the way, can you tell me how
to . . ."

Empathy: "I'm new, haven't been to the training course and they
expect me to figure this out all by myself. It's not fair."

Thick Accent: "Hi. Dees computes haf big no wurk. Eet no makedah
passurt. Cunu help? Ah, tanku." Good for a quick exchange and a
quick good-bye. Carefully done, people want you off the phone
quickly.

Billsf, the almost 40 American phreak who now calls Amsterdam
home was wiring up Supernigger's real live demonstration of
social engineering against Sprint. A dial tone came over the PA
system followed by the pulses to 411.

"Directory Assistance," the operator's male voice was squeezed
into a mere three kilohertz bandwidth.

Suddenly, to the immense pleasure of the audience, an ear-splitting
screech a thousand times louder than finger nails on a chalk
board not only belched across the sound system but caused instant
bleeding in the ears of the innocent but now deaf operator. .
Billsf sheepishly grinned. "Just trying to wire up a mute
button."

Three hundred people in unison responded: "It doesn't work." No
shit.

While Billsf feverishly worked to regain his reputation, Supernigger
explained what he was going to do. The phone companies
have a service, ostensibly for internal use, called a C/NA. Sort
of a reverse directory when you have the number but want to know
who the number belongs to and from whence it comes. You can
understand that this is not the sort of feature that the phone
company wants to have in the hands of a generation of kids who
are so apathetic that they don't even know they don't give a
shit. Nonetheless, the access to this capability is through an
800 number and a PIN.

Supernigger was going to show us how to acquire such privileged
information. Live. "When you get some phone company person as
dumb as a bolt on the other end, and you know a few buzz words.
you convince them that it is in their best interest and that they
are supposed to give you the information."

"I've never done this in front of an audience before, so give me
three tries," he explained to an anxiously foaming at the mouth
crowd. No one took a cheap pot shot at him: tacit acceptance of
his rules.

Ring. Ring.

"Operations. Mary."

"Mary. Hi, this is Don Brewer in social engineering over at CIS,
how's it going?" Defuse.

"Oh, fine. I guess."

"I know, I hate working Sundays. Been busy?"

"Nah, no more. Pretty calm. How can I help you?"

"I'm doing a verification and I got systems down. I just need
the C/NA. You got it handy?" Long pause.

"Sure, lemme look. Ah, it's 313.424.0900." 700 notebooks appeared
out of nowhere, accompanied by the sound of 700 pens
writing down a now-public phone number.

"Got it. Thanks." The audience is gasping at the stunningly
stupid gullibility of Mary. But quiet was essential to the
mission.

"Here's the PIN number while we're at it." Double gasp. She's
offering the supposedly super secret and secure PIN number? Was
this event legal? Had Supernigger gone over the line?

"No, CIS just came up. Thanks anyway."

"Sure you don't need it?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Bye." Click. No need to press the issue. PIN
access might be worth a close look from the next computer DA
wanna-be.

An instant shock wave of cacophonous approval worked its way
throughout the 750 seat ballroom in less than 2 microseconds.
Supernigger had just successfully set himself as a publicly
ordained Cyber Christ of Social Engineering. His white robes
were on the way. Almost a standing ovation lasted for the better
part of a minute by everyone but the narcs in the audience. I
don't know if they were telco or Feds of whatever, but I do know
that they were the stupidest narcs in the city of New York. This
pair of dour thirty something Republicans had sphincters so tight
you could mine diamonds out of their ass.

Arms defiantly and defensively crossed, they were stupid enough
to sit in the third row center aisle. They never cracked a smile
at some of the most entertaining performances I have seen outside
of the giant sucking sound that emanates from Ross Perot's ears.

Agree or disagree with hacking and phreaking, this was funny and
unrehearsed ad lib material. Fools. So, for fun, I crawled over
the legs of the front row and sat in the aisle, a bare eight feet
from the narcs. Camera in hand I extended the 3000mm tele-photo
lens which can distinguish the color of a mosquitoes underwear
from a kilometer and pointed it in their exact direction. Their
childhood acne scars appeared the depth of the Marianna Trench.
Click, and the flash went off into their eyes, which at such a
short distance should have caused instant blindness. But nothing.
No reaction. Nada. Cold as ice. Rather disappointing, but
now we know that almost human looking narc-bots have been perfected
and are being beta tested at hacker cons.

Emmanuel Goldstein is very funny. Maybe that's why Ed Markey and
he get along so well. His low key voice rings of a gentler,
kinder sarcasm but has a youthful charm despite that he is
30-something himself.

"Sometimes you have to call back. Sometimes you have to call
over and over to get what you want. You have to keep in mind
that the people at the other end of the phone are generally not
as intelligent as a powered down computer." He proceeded to
prove the point.

Ring ring,

"Directory Assistance."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Can I help you."

"Yes."

Pause.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Can I help you.:

"OK."

Shhhhh. Ssshhh. Quiet. Shhhh. Too damned funny for words.

"Directory Assistance."

"I need some information."

"How can I help you."

"Is this where I get numbers?"

"What number would you like?"

"Information."

"This is information."

"You said directory assistance."

"This is."

"But I need information."

"What information do you need?"

"For information."

"This is information."

"What's the number?"

"For what?"

"Information."

"This is directory assistance."

"I need the number for information."

Pause. Pause.

"What number do you want?"

"For information."

Pause. Guffaws, some stifled, some less so. Funny stuff.

"Hold on please."

Pause.

"Supervisor. May I help you?"

"Hi."

"Hi."

Pause.

"Can I help you?"

"I need the number for information."

"This is directory assistance."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What's the number for information?"

"This is information."

"What about directory assistance?"

"This is directory assistance."

"But I need information."

"This is information."

"Oh, OK. What's the number for information?"

Pause.

"Ah 411."

"That's it?"

"No. 555.1212 works too."

"So there's two numbers for information?"

"Yes."

"Which one is better?" How this audience kept its cool was
beyond me. Me and my compatriots were beside ourselves.

Pause.

"Neither."

"Then why are there two?"

Pause.

"I don't know."

"OK. So I can use 411 or 555.1212."

"That's right."

"And which one should I use?"

Pause.

"411 is faster." Huge guffaws. Ssshhhh. Ssshhhh..

"Oh. What about the ones?"

"Ones?"

"The ones."

"Which ones?"

"The ones at the front of the number."

"Oh, those ones. You don't need ones. Just 411 or 555.1212.."

"My friends say they get to use ones." Big laugh. Shhhhhh.

"That's only for long distance."

"To where?" How does he keep a straight face?

Pause.

"If you wanted 914 information you'd use a one."

"If I wanted to go where?"

"To 914?"

"Where's that?"

"Westchester."

"Oh, Westchester. I have friends there."

Pause.

"Hello?"

"Yes?"

"So I use ones?"

"Yes. A one for the 914 area."

"How?"

Pause.

"Put a one before the number."

"Like 1914. Right?"

"1914.555.1212."

"All of those numbers?"

"Yes."

"That's three ones."

"That's the area code."

"I've heard about those. They confuse me." Rumbling chuckles
and laughs throughout the hall.

Pause.

She slowly and carefully explained what an area code is to the
howlingly irreverent amusement of the entire crowd except for the
fool narcs.

"Thanks. So I can call information and get a number?"

"That's right."

"And there's two numbers I can use?"

"Yes."

"So I got two numbers on one call?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Wow. Thanks. Have a nice day."

Comments heard around HOPE

Rop Gongrijjp, Hacktic: "The local phone companies use their own
social engineers when they can't get their own people to tell
them what they need to know."

Sprint is using what they consider to be the greatest access
mechanism since the guillotine. For all of us road warriors out
there who are forever needing long distance voice service from
the Whattownisthis, USA airport, Sprint thinks they have a better
mousetrap. No more messing finger entry. No more pass-codes or
PIN's.

I remember at the Washington National Airport last summer I was
using my Cable and Wireless long distance access card and entered
the PIN and to my surprise, an automated voice came on and said,
"Sorry, you entered your PIN with the wrong finger. Please try
again."

Sprint says they've solved this thorny cumbersome problem with a
service called "The Voice Fone Card". Instead of memorizing
another 64 digit long PIN, you just speak into the phone: "Hi,
it's me. Give me dial tone or give me death." The voice recognition
circuits masturbate for a while to determine if it's
really you or not.

Good idea. But according to Strat, not a good execution. Strat
found that someone performing a poor imitation of his voice was
enough to break through the front door with ease. Even a poor
tape recording played back over a cheap cassette speaker was
sufficient to get through Sprint's new whiz-banger ID system.

Strat laughed that Sprint officials said in defense, "We didn't
say it was secure: just convenient."

Smart. Oh, so smart.

"If my generation of the late 60's and early 70's had had the
same technology you guys have there never would have been an
80's." This was how I opened my portion of the author's panel.

The authors panel was meant to give HOPE hackers insight into how
they are perceived from the so-called outside. I think the
session achieved that well, and I understand the videos will be
available soon.

The question of electronic transvestites on AOL came up to everyone's
enjoyment, and all of us on the panel retorted with a big,
"So what?" If you have cyber-sex with someone on the 'Net and
enjoy it, what the hell's the difference? Uncomfortable butt
shifting on chairs echoed how the largely male audience likely
feels about male-male sex regardless of distance.

"Imagine," I kinda said, "that is a few years you have a body
suit which not only can duplicate your moves exactly, but can
touch you in surprisingly private ways when your suit is connected
to another. In this VR world, you select the gorgeous woman
of choice to virtually occupy the other suit, and then the two of
you go for it. How do you react when you discover that like
Lola, 'I know what I am, and what I am is a man and so's Lola.'"
Muted acknowledgment that unisex may come to mean something
entirely different in the not too distant future.

"Ooh, ooh, please call on me." I don't mean to be insulting, but
purely for identification purposes, the woman behind the voice
bordered on five foot four and four hundred pounds. Her bathtub
had stretch marks.

I never called on her but that didn't stop her.

"I want to know what you think of how the democratization of the
internet is affected by the differences between the government
and the people who think that freedom of the net is the most
important thing and that government is fucked but for freedom to
be free you have to have the democracy behind you which means
that the people and the government need to, I mean, you know, and
get along but the sub culture of the hackers doesn't help the
government but hackers are doing their thing which means that the
democracy will not work , now I know that people are laughing and
giggling (which they were in waves) but I'm serious about this
and I know that I have a bad case of hypomania but the medication
is working so it's not a bad as it could be. What do you think?"

I leaned forward into the microphone and gave the only possible
answer. "I dunno. Next." The thunderous round of applause
which followed my in-depth response certainly suggested that my
answer was correct. Not politically, not technically, but anarchistically.
Flexibility counts.

HOPE was attended by around one thousands folks, and the Hotel
Filthadelphia still stands. (Aw shucks.)

My single biggest complaint was not that the schedules slipped by
an hour or two or three; sessions at conferences like this keep
going if the audience is into them and they are found to be
educational and productive. So an hour session can run into two
if the material and presentations fit the mood. In theory a
boring session could find itself kama kazi'd into early melt-down
if you have the monotone bean counter from hell explaining the
distributed statistical means of aggregate synthetic transverse
digitization in composite analogous integral fruminations.
(Yeah, this audience would buy off on that in a hot minute.) But
there were not any bad sessions. The single track plenary style
attracted hundred of hackers for every event. Emmanuel and
friends picked their panels and speakers well. When dealing with
sponge-like minds who want to soak up all they can learn, even in
somewhat of a party atmosphere, the response is bound to be good.

My single biggest complaint was the registration nightmare. I'd
rather go the DMV and stand in line there than get tagged by the
seemingly infinite lines at HOPE. At DefCon early registration
was encouraged and the sign up verification kept simple.

For some reason I cannot thoroughly (or even partially) fathom, a
two step procedure was chosen. Upon entering, and before the
door narcs would let anyone in, each attendee had to be assigned
a piece of red cardboard with a number on it. For the first day
you could enter the 'exhibits' and auditorium without challenge.
But by Day 2 one was expected to wait in line for the better part
of a week, have a digital picture taken on a computer tied to a
CCD camera, and then receive a legitimate HOPE photo-ID card.
What a mess. I don't have to beat them up on it too bad; they
know the whole scheme was rotten to the core.

I waited till near the end of Day 2 when the lines were gone and
the show was over. That's when I got my Photo ID card. I used
the MIB's photo ID card the rest of the time.

HOPE was a lot of fun and I was sorry to see it end, but as all
experiences, there is a certain amount of letdown. After a great
vacation, or summer camp, or a cruise, or maybe even after Woodstock,
a tear welts up. Now I didn't cry that HOPE was over, but
an intense 48 hours with hackers is definitely not your average
computer security convention that only rolls from 9AM to Happy
Hour. At a hacker conference, you snooze, you lose. You never
know what is going to happen next - so much is spontaneous and
unplanned - and it generally is highly educational, informative
and entertaining.

Computer security folks: you missed an event worth attending.
You missed some very funny entertainment. You missed some fine
young people dressed in some fine garb. You missed the chance to
meet with your perceived 'enemy'. You missed the opportunity to
get inside the heads of the generation that knows more about
keyboards than Huck Finning in suburbia. You really missed
something, and you should join Robert MIB Steele and I at the
next hacker conference.

If only I had known.

If only I had known that tornadoes had been dancing up and down
5th avenue I would have stayed at the Hotel Filthadelphia for
another night.

La Guardia airport was closed. Flights were up to 6 hours delayed
if not out and out canceled. Thousands of stranded travelers
hunkered down for the night. If only I had known.

Wait, wait. Hours to wait. And then, finally, a plane ready and
willing to take off and swerve and dive between thunderbolts and
twisters and set me on my way home.

My kids were bouncing out of the car windows when my wife picked
me up at the airport somewhere in the vicinity of 1AM.

"Don't blame me," I said in all seriousness. "It was the hackers.
They caused the whole thing."

Notice: This article is free, and the author encourages responsible
widespread electronic distribution of the document in full,
not piecemeal. No fees may be charged for its use. For hard
copy print rights, please contact the author and I'll make you an
offer you can't refuse. The author retains full copyrights to
the contents and the term Cyber-Christ.

Winn is the author of "Terminal Compromise", a novel detailing
a fictionalized account of a computer war waged on the United
States. After selling well as a book-store-book, Terminal Compromise
was placed on the Global Network as the world's first
Novel-on-the-Net Shareware and has become an underground classic.
(Gopher TERMCOMP.ZIP)

His new non-fiction book, "Information Warfare: Chaos on the
Electronic Superhighway" is a compelling, non-technical analysis
of personal privacy, economic and industrial espionage and
national security. He calls for the creation of a National
Information Policy, a Constitution in Cyberspace and an
Electronic Bill of Rights.